


Yes, Mistress

by Lillielle



Series: A Breath of Romance, A Twist of Despair [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Drugged Coercion, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Insanity, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, magical coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I own nothing.</p>
<p>A world without hope is nothing at all. But what would Hermione know? She's Bellatrix's pet forever.</p>
<p>Song lyrics from Eluveitie: "A Rose For Epona."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, Mistress

_Condemned mistress of shattered hopes and forever broken dreams_

_Were you there?_

"My little pet," Bellatrix whispers and I come to her, my limbs trembling, my eyes glassy with my adoration. She tips my head back, slips the verdigris-coloured draught down my throat. A little parting gift from the Dark Lord, something to ensure my obedience, my ever-faithful devotion. I should be angry. The old Hermione would have railed at this, would have fought tooth and nail against this green-slicked enchantment, the chains made of desire and pain.

The new Hermione simply smiles and lifts her head for another kiss, as sweet as poisoned wine. Bellatrix's nails dig into my scalp, bringing tiny darts of pain. I can feel a few fat droplets of blood spill across my skin, and I laugh. The sound echoes with madness.

Am I mad? I consider the question carefully as I follow along at her feet. She makes her rounds among the prisoners held at the Dark Lord's whim. Harry and Ron dwell among them. I barely recognise them anymore.

No, I'm not mad, I decide as Bellatrix cackles and tortures my former friends, slumped and twitching in their mutual cell. Harry's feet drum the sickly straw, and I see his eyes, still brilliant green and shattered glass. Ron shouts, but the sound is meaningless as it twists into a pain-crazed shriek.

"Do you see, pet?" Bellatrix whispers lovingly, crouching down to my level, her hand cupping my chin. "The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things. Only I think," she confides, her eyes sparkling, "that the Walrus can't speak of anything right now. Don't you?"

I nod, obedient, the stones of the dungeon floor cold and gritty beneath my bare knees. She grows bored, snapping her fingers at the still twitching figures as they fall limp and unconscious. For a moment, I think that Harry has recognised me, the collared and leashed pet of the Dark Lord's second-in-command, but I doubt it. I don't think enough of his mind is there anymore.

It was in the beginning. I remember him shouting, blustering. Defiant to the last, his voice cracking in pubescent fury. His wand snapped in the end by the Dark Lord, who smiled and made a joke about their twin cores. He stuffed the remnants of the phoenix feather in Harry's mouth, mashing the shattered quill fragments against Harry's gums until they bled. I could only watch, apathetic, as Lucius Malfoy dragged Harry and Ron down to the cells. Should I have cared? Probably.

But I can't anymore. Bellatrix levitates me up the flight of stairs, considerate as she climbs. I remain still, my head bowed as I count the steps. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. At the top, she sets me down with a jolt.

"Thank you, Mistress," I murmur to the dusty floor.

"Good pet," the words drift back, a welcome balm to my longing ears.

"Come, watch with me," she commands, and I follow, my hands and knees aching, but it is a sweet ache. I don't mind the purple bruises that flower in splotches along my pallid skin, the stinging cuts that accumulate along my ribs when Bellatrix is bored. My back bears her first name in delicate spirals. Such a beautiful name. I pick out her star every evening when I am allowed my constitutional, on the short leash of one of the junior Death Eaters. They snarl at me and hasten me along, but I ignore them. I don't answer to them. I only answer to _her_ , and it amuses her when I am defiant to others, when I stick out my tongue or fasten my feet to the stones of the balcony.

In the late evening, Bellatrix leads me to her bedroom, beckons me onto the bed. The draught is massaged down my throat again, its sweet iciness stinging all the way down. But the lassitude it brings is so beautiful, I can't bring myself to care as she lays me back on the bed, twisting me like her own perfectly broken china doll.

"My pet," she whispers, kissing my mouth, laving my collarbones with her tongue. Her hands cup my breasts, pinch the nipples with exquisite sharpness, and I hiss an intake of breath, unable to keep silent anymore. Our coupling is, as always, swift and intense and so deliciously breath-taking I am left tumbling in the aftermath, kissing her over and over, whispering her name in broken syllables as her fingers manipulate me to higher and higher heights. She never stops when I beg, and I love her and curse her for it.

"Mistress," I whine as she grinds against me, as her tangled black curls fall over her face and she hisses her pleasure to the breeze that always spirals through her room.

She slaps me, hard, the hand print stinging and coming up blossom pink.

"Be a good pet," she says, and I nod, helpless.

"Yes, Mistress," I breathe, as she tears me apart once more.


End file.
